A Veil of Glass and Rain Read online

  A Veil of Glass and Rain

  Title Page

  Part 1

  Part 2

  A Veil Of

  Glass and Rain

  Petra F. Bagnardi

  A Veil of Glass and Rain by Petra F. Bagnardi

  Copyright 2013 Petra F. Bagnardi

  Smashwords Edition

  DEDICATION

  To my grandfather, who loved me unconditionally.

  And to Rome, home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Cover Picture for the ebook edition:©Ryan Jorgensen(jorgophotography)/Stockfresh http://stockfresh.com/gallery/jorgophotography

  A big thank you to divainpyjamas.blogspot.com for the support and the encouragements. You really warmed my heart.

  I would like to thank Aurelia Lemoine for her useful notes and comments, and for loving Brina and Eagan from the very beginning. A huge “thank you” to Francesca Chericoni for her artistic contribution. And then a big “thank you” to the talented Nina Monti, to Barbara, Lubna, Emanuela, Gaia, Alice, Maria, and Michela. You're all amazing and supportive friends. I'll never forget.

  Part 1

  Brina

  prologue

  The first time I saw Eagan, it was through a veil of glass and water. I was nine, and he was fourteen.

  We were at my parent's place. It was raining, and I was playing outside by myself. I was wearing a yellow raincoat and yellow boots. Eagan, his parents and mine were in the kitchen, talking, laughing, probably making tea. I could see them through the kitchen window.

  Our garden was dotted with small and big puddles. I jumped around them, pretending they were black holes that could capture me, if only I grazed their surface with the tips of my feet.

  When I paused and looked up, I noticed that Eagan was observing me through the window. He smiled an easy smile and waved. I waved back and resumed my playing.

  After a few moments he joined me outside. He was carrying a deep-purple umbrella. I stared at him from the edge of a huge puddle. He stood on the opposite side and for a few seconds we considered each other. I noticed that his feet were too close to the water, and I wanted to warn him about the danger of black holes, but I felt shy. He was tall, like a giant. His smile was gentle , and he smelled good.

  “You smell like cookies,” I told him.

  He chuckled, and the sound made me feel warm. “My mum has a thing for cinnamon. She puts it everywhere. She even found a cinnamon scented fabric softener. And cinnamon scented soap,” he explained.

  “You shouldn't stand so close to the water, it's dangerous.” I finally informed him.

  He contemplated the murky puddle that separated us with a serious expression, then he looked up at me. “I read somewhere that if you jump into a puddle, the currents will carry you away to another world.”

  Suddenly the dark water became less frightening and more interesting. “If I jump in and get lost in the other world, will you run after me to bring me back?” I asked him.

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  1.

  I know it's cruel, but I don't remember his name.

  We met at a party. I picked him because he has Eagan's colors; dark-blond hair, and blue eyes. But everything else looks wrong. He's tall and lanky, and from the way he walks and moves, it's obvious that he's uncomfortable in his own skin. He's younger than Eagan.

  We drank, we talked, he invited me to his place, and I accepted.

  It's awful, but I still don't recall his name.

  We are in his bedroom. The lights are on and we are still dressed. I think he smells like beer and sweat.

  He presses me up against the wall. I can't make myself touch him, so I flatten my palms against the brick behind me, and I trace the bumps and cracks with my fingertips.

  He buries his face in the hollow of my neck. His kisses are warm and wet. I close my eyes.

  I can't remember his name and I can't feel anything.

  He presses his erection against my belly and he begins to grind; the cold zipper of his jeans scrapes the exposed skin of my belly; this I can feel.

  He breathes and moans into my skin. I open my eyes and start counting the stains on the carpet beneath our feet.

  He slides one of his hands under my black t-shirt. I'm not wearing a bra, because I don't really need it. When his fingers brush the underside on my bare breast, he moans.

  He bucks against me harder and faster. The wall scratches my back a little; this too I can feel.

  He cups my breast in his palm and then he squeezes it. When I whimper, he thinks I'm enjoying what he's doing, so he crushes my breast again. I moan in distress and he groans in pleasure. Eventually, his erection jerks, and his lean frame shakes as he comes.

  “Sorry,” he pants into my neck.

  “It's fine,” I tell him.

  He keeps me pressed up against the wall.

  “It's just that you're so hot. I saw you on stage, a couple of months ago. With your guitar, and your tight skirt, and I—Well, I'm glad I met you tonight, at the party.” His voice his rough, and still tinged with arousal. He kisses my shoulder.

  I place my palms on his chest, raise on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then I push him away from me.

  “Stage lights are deceiving,” I tell him. “They make you seem taller, hotter, better. But it's just an illusion.”

  While he's in the bathroom, I leave his room and then his house.

  Three days ago it was my birthday, February the 1st.

  Eagan called me.

  “Happy Birthday, Brina!”

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  “I found a job in Rome. Next month we'll be in the same city. Finally!”

  His deep voice resounded throughout my entire being. It awakened feelings and sensations left dormant for a very long time. I tried to detect signs of disappointment and anger in his tone, but all I could perceive was sincere joy.

  “Really?” I clutched my cellphone so hard, that I felt the plastic cracking.

  “Yeah. I missed you.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “I read there's an Exhibit of this very popular, and quiet unusual, Italian artist. I'm curious. Let's go together when I'm there.”

  I hesitated then. And suddenly the silence was filled with all the years spent apart, and all the words left unsaid.

  “Say yes, Brina.” He uttered in a husky tone; it was both a request and a plea.

  “Yes.” I breathed.

  I'm twenty years old.

  In a few weeks Eagan will be here.

  During the last four years we've been barely in touch. I have tried very hard not to think about him. I've buried his memory under the kisses, the touches, and the voices of other guys. But now all I can feel, sense, perceive is him and the scent of cinnamon.

  2.

  Autumn and Winter were my lonely seasons. My parents were constantly abroad working, and Eagan was in New York, living his life there. We exchanged emails and talked over the computer almost every day, but it wasn't enough.

  I wasn't really alone at home, in Italy, because we had a housekeeper named Lea, who was kind and protective, but she wasn't my family, and she wasn't Eagan.

  Eagan and I bonded in the first place because, despite the age difference, diverse nationality, and opposite gender, we were reflections of each other lives.

  Our parents are photographers. My parents, just like Eagan's, can't bare to stay apart. They are each other air. And they're all very dedicated to their work.

  My parents love me, and Eagan's parents love him; but it's not enough.

  Spring and Summer were my happy seasons, because I could spend time with my family and with Eagan. Everything seemed better when I was with them; food that normally ta
sted like ash, was suddenly appealing.

  During the summer we spent on the Ile d'Ouessant, which I renamed the Lighthouse Island, everything began to change between Eagan and me. And it was mostly my fault.

  We had our first big argument. For three days I tried to avoid Eagan. He let me, because the island was very small and it wasn't really difficult to locate me; most likely he knew that one word from him would have made my resolve to stay mad at him crumble. He wanted to let me be upset and be by myself to think, but not for too long. He found me on the third day.

  Early morning, I went for a walk to our favorite beach; in truth I wanted him to come to me. The sun was still casting a cold light on the shore, the sand was cool under my feet. At first, with just shorts and a t-shirt on, the ocean wind chilled my skin, but after a long walk I discarded them and stood on the water edge in my purple two-piece swimming suit. At thirteen I was skinny, and my breast were barely showing, despite that my friend Mina had convinced me to wear a bikini

  I let the icy water caress my toes. I stared at the imposing lighthouse standing on the highest point of the island, dressed in its black and white striped suit, protecting us from its vantage point like a tall and benevolent monarch. I wished it could talk and dispense wise advices.

  My best friend in the world was a cheater. I loved Eagan, and I did not understand how he could hurt a girl as kind as Ines.

  Ines was Portuguese. She was petite and had dark hair and dark eyes, just like me. Unlike me, she was curvy and she had enjoyed food.

  For me eating was something I had to do in order to survive. For Ines food was pleasure.

  We got along not only because she was Eagan's girlfriend, but also because she was really my friend. Despite the age difference, she treated me as an equal; exactly as Eagan did. And she loved cartoons.

  We delighted in playing entire conversations using the squeaky and high-pitched inflections of the cartoon characters. We drove Eagan completely insane.

  “If you don't stop talking like that, I swear, I'm going to strangle you. Both of you,” he bellowed.

  On a cloudy Sunday, Ines took me to an amusement park. We talked, we giggled, we ate pink cotton candy and we rode the merry-go-round. When she rose her gaze toward the roller-coaster, however, I shook my head sharply.

  “Why not?” Ines asked.

  “It doesn't look safe,” I replied.

  “Come on, Brina. Where else can you raise your hands up and yell, hands up?” She insisted.

  “Everywhere,” I told her.

  It became our favorite joke of the summer. Once we were at the supermarket, the only one on the island, therefore it was always crowded. Ines was about to hand to the cashier money for her purchases, her hands were full of coins.

  I yelled, “Hands up, Ines!”

  Suddenly, it was raining euros.

  Ines retaliated, of course.

  Eagan's parents were friends with other American families that chose to spend their vacations on the Lighthouse Island. Twice a week we all gathered together at a restaurant, reserved especially for us, to have pizza parties. Not everyone was Italian, or of Italian origins, but everyone loved pizza, and the cook was from Naples.

  Italians rarely eat pizza using knives and forks; I am half Italian but my mother, who's full-blooded, taught me to eat pizza using my hands.

  Ines waited for the moment when the slice of pizza, overloaded with tomatoes and vegetables, was almost touching my lips.

  The she yelled, “Hands up, Brina!”

  Suddenly it was raining mozzarella, tomatoes and vegetables.

  I remember that Eagan and his friends hollered; I remember that my friend Mina, her curly red hair full of toppings, laughed until she was crying and breathless; I remember that only one girl, the sister of David, Eagan's best friend, was glaring disdainfully at all of us.

  I noticed Eagan's shadow painted on the sand, before I saw him. And before I could turn around and talk, he grabbed me, lifted me and then he threw me in the water. It was frigid. My words of protest became a startled gasp, my legs and arms moved frantically, trying to get warm. Eagan seized me and hurled me in the water again, and then again.

  I emerged and managed to shriek, “Stop it!”

  He did. While I shivered in the ocean, he observed me with his arms crossed and a serious face. He was wearing yellow trunks, the water grazed his knees, but he didn't seem affected by the cold. Right then, I envied and detested his strength.

  “Are you done?” I spurted.

  “Yes,” he said. “Lets swim.”

  He dove, went under, and then reappeared quiet far from me. Eagan was a great swimmer, and he adored being in the water. As I waded toward him, I saw the tension abandon his features, I saw his smile spread, I saw his twinkling blue eyes. The water, that loved him in return, stroked is muscles, defining them, shaping him into an ancient Greek statue, that the ocean full of memories remembered from the past.

  I kept a little distance between us, panting, trying to stay afloat.

  “Are you still mad at me?” He asked.

  “No,” I answered. “Are going to throw me again?” I added, with a small smile.

  He grinned. “No.” Then he pulled me to him.

  Instinctively I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. His arms encircled me, a warm cradle of velvet and steel.

  “Sorry about the throwing thing. I wanted your undivided attention,” he explained.

  I hid my face in his strong neck. “No need for that. You're all I've been thinking about.”

  He squeezed me. “I missed you, kitty-cat.”

  I drew back a little to look at him. I let my gaze caress his bright blue eyes, his dark-blond hair, and his stubbly jaw. “You need a shave,“ I told him.

  Eagan disentangled one of his arms from our embrace and gently traced his fingertip along my upper lip, where I knew a sparse layer of fine hair could be seen.

  I was just beginning to discover razors and waxing; being a brunette, my hair was more evident.

  “You need a shave, too,” he teased.

  I tried to push him away, but his arm went around me again, and his hold tightened. I trembled, but I was not sure the cold water was to blame.

  “Lets get back,” he said.

  That summer he changed my nickname. I used to be “fur-ball”, because of my Mediterranean girl status. But as I began to wax and shave, he started calling me “kitty-cat”; it was gentler and I adored it. For me he'd always been, and would always be, my “good giant”; because he was tall and because he protected me.

  Eagan had brought towels. They were waiting for us on the shore; one purple, and two yellow. He wrapped the purple one around me, he used one of the yellow ones to towel off, and placed the other one onto the sand, so we could sit.

  “Why did you hurt Ines like that, Eagan?” I kept my eyes focused on the black and white lighthouse. I felt Eagan's gaze on me as he answered.

  “I didn't really mean to. Things haven't been right between us for a while. I wanted to end it. She wanted to keep trying.”

  “So you cheated on her?”

  “Yes, to send her a message.”

  “Instead of talking?”

  “Actions speak louder than words.”

  “That's cruel and kind of immature.” As we talked, I kept staring at the lighthouse, and he kept looking at me.

  “What can I say? I'm 18, and when I think, I rarely use my head.”

  At that I smiled, and I finally gazed at him. He smiled back.

  “I'm glad you and Ines are friends. But what you and I have, is more important and stronger than anything else. You are my best friend, my family. And you should always have my back.”

  I flinched. His words hurt me. “I have your back.”

  He probably noticed my expression, for he reached out and brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers.

  “I know, Brina,” he said, his tone more tender. “It's okay for you to be angry at me if I mess
up. And you have to yell at me. That is fine. Not talking to me, avoiding me, denying me you, that is not fine.”

  I nodded. “Sorry about that. It wasn't very mature of me.”

  “You're 13. You're allowed to be immature,” he said.

  I winced.

  “That was a joke,” he added.

  Then he whispered a kiss across my temple, and reclined on the towel. He brushed his hand across the small of my back. It was a soothing touch, and I sensed it all over my body. I returned my gaze to the lighthouse.

  “I love you, kitty-cat,” came Eagan's voice from behind me.

  “I love you too, good giant,” I told him, but my eyes remained averted.

  I was thirteen and he was eighteen, and things were beginning to slowly change between us; but I was the one who broke everything.

  We spent the entire day together, just the two of us. It was heaven. At night we went to a concert in the town main square. Various groups played, and then a girl with short blond hair took the stage. It was just her and her guitar. She was magnetic and intense. I couldn't stop staring at her fingers caressing the strings. She made her guitar sing, and moan and cry. It was beautiful.

  When I looked up at Eagan, he was grinning.